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Updated: May 25, 2025
"Them wretches is givin' Froggy beans," said Mrs Swadling. "Lucky fer 'im it's daylight, or they'd tickle 'is ribs with their boots," said Mrs Jones. "Jonah and Chook's at the bottom o' that," said Mrs Swadling, looking hard at Mrs Yabsley. "Ah, the devil an' 'is 'oof!" said Mrs Yabsley grimly, and was silent.
Chook held the candle in his hand to show the little dresser with the cups and saucers and plates arranged in mathematical precision. The pots and pans were already hung on hooks. They had all seen service, and in Chook's eyes seemed more at home than the brand-new things that hung in the shops. As Chook looked round with pride, he became aware that Partridge was pushing something into his hand.
A cold scorn of the police filled Chook's mind. For months the school ran unmolested, and then a raid was planned in the spirit of sportsmen arranging a drive of rabbits for a day's outing. This raid meant capture by the police, an ignominious procession two by two to the lock-up, a night in the cells unless bail was found, and a fine and a lecture from the magistrate in the morning.
See yer to-morrer," said Chook, moving off. "Ere, gimme a match," he added. "Better tell yer old woman I'm sleepin' out," said Jonah He was boarding with Chook's family, paying what he could spare out of fifteen shillings or a pound a week. "Oh, I don't suppose you'll be missed," replied Chook graciously. "Rye buck!" cried Jonah.
Chook headed them again, and was three pounds to the good. The gaffers realized that a trot of heads was coming, and the boxer had to offer twelve to ten to cover Chook's stake. For the seventh time Chook threw heads, and was twelve pounds to the good. This was his dream come true, and with the faith of the gambler in omens, he knew that was the end of his luck.
"A dollar or ten bob heads!" cried the boxer, staking Chook's win. Chook spun the coins again, and as they dropped heads, the boxer raked in one pound. "Wot d'ye set?" he cried to Chook. "The lot," cried Chook, and spun the coins. Heads again, and Chook had two pounds in the boxer's hands, who put ten shillings aside in case Chook "threw out", and staked thirty.
It was an agreeable and daily diversion for her to run up to the shop, and prophesy ruin and disaster to Chook and Pinkey for taking a shop that had beggared the last tenant, ignoring the fact that Jack Ryan had converted his profits into beer. Chook's rough tongue made her wince at times, but she refused to take offence for more than a day.
All but Stinky, who held his glass as if it belonged to someone else, disdaining to touch it. Chook's gorge rose at the sight. "Don't eat it, if it chokes yer," he cried. With an oath Stinky threw the glass on the ground, where it broke with a noisy crash that jerked every head in their direction as if pulled by strings. "I can pay fer wot I eat," he cried. "Come on, Liz."
The policeman looked hard at him, and then cried roughly, "Get out of this, or I'll lock you up." Chook's mates helped him to his feet, and he staggered away like a drunken man. Suddenly he became aware that someone was crying softly near him, and, turning his head, found that it was Pinkey, who was holding his arm and guiding his steps.
Pinkey, amazed by Chook's impudence and annoyed that her lover should cut so poor a figure, encouraged him, with the feminine delight in playing with fire. Then Chook, with an insolent grin at Stinky, announced that he was going to see Pinkey home. Mrs Yabsley just parted them in time. Chook went swearing up to the corner on the chance of getting a final taste at the "Woolpack."
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